


all the good girls go to hell

by kinaesthetique



Series: her demons, their witch [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Devil Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Dragon Satya "Symmetra" Vaswani, F/F, Gen, Temporary Character Death, cameos by various overwatch characters, fair amounts of gore, here be demons, they're both demons they had to die first sorry folks that's the rules
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-01-16 00:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinaesthetique/pseuds/kinaesthetique
Summary: Before, there was Angela, and eventually, there was Mercy.Later, there was Satya, and shortly after, Symmetra.Even later still, Mercy watched Fareeha Amari wonder: what could even convince a human to become a demon?Between Mercy and Symmetra, they hope she never has to find out.





	1. picket fence

**Author's Note:**

> A prologue, told in short sections, chronologically through Angela's life and unlife, then Satya's life and unlife, and finally through their unlives together, all the way up to when they meet Fareeha.
> 
> Updates occasionally.
> 
> Trigger warning given for each chapter as well as tagged.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young and brilliant Dr. Angela Ziegler recently moved to the states to get her American medical license. After passing her exams, she begins a residency at Adhimore General. She's the perfect candidate for the accelerated program.
> 
> She's also the perfect candidate for something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings: medical malpractice, murder, poisoning, cliffhanger**  
By virtue of the nature of this ‘verse, it’s sort of obvious that in order to become demons, one has to die.  
I… am very sorry. This chapter reads like the first 10 minutes of a Criminal Minds episode, which is to say very tragic.

“Dr. O’Deorain?” 

Angela peeks into the doctor’s office, wincing at how her Swiss accent butchers the traditional Irish name. Fortunately, the linguistic stumble goes unheard; the redhead is nowhere to be seen. Her office is meticulous and barely seems worked in. Even her personal computer, a state of the art model gifted by a mysterious hospital donor, is dark with inactivity.

Angela pulls her hair back in a tighter bun, trying not to look as frazzled as she feels. Her first-day tour had ended at Dr. O’Deorain’s office yesterday, where the older woman had taken the time to shake her hand and explain the ICU rotation Angela would be inheriting over tea and biscuits. Instead, she’d taken most of the time to learn about her new mentee’s life and accomplishments.

Still, the senior doctor insisted that Angela meet all the patients with Dr. O’Deorain before embarking on the patient rounds solo, so Angela arrived just after three the next day, as instructed. She stands awkwardly outside the office, trying not to tap her foot or seem out of place.

“Dr. Ziegler!” After twenty minutes, the missing doctor rounds the curve of the nurse’s station, reaching out to shake her hand again. “Terribly sorry! We had… Well, I regret to say you’ll have one less patient on your rounds.”

“Oh no, I am terribly sorry to hear that,” Angela adjusts her turtleneck, wincing at her reaction. On one hand, it was a large ICU in an urban environment and such sudden turns were to be expected more often than they’d ever been in her small countryside clinic. On the other hand, it was still awful sometimes, to be so close to death itself.

“I shouldn’t have led with that,” Dr. O’Deorain gestures into her office. “Let me make you some tea for your nerves. Tea’s a good habit to keep. The Americans don’t really get it, I must admit.”

“Dr. O’Deorain-”

“Again, Dr. Ziegler, you can call me Moira. I really don’t mind.” Moira closes the door behind them and starts the electric kettle. “But I would never expect you to allow the same! After all, I’m established in my field. My title’s implied!”

"Ah, of course." Angela adjusts her stethoscope around her neck, smiling weakly.

"Give it a few years. You'll get sick of your own name." Moira chuckles at her own joke and hands Angela a mug- handle first. “Oh, I see that look in your eyes. We’ll multi-task then. Allow me to give you a rundown of who you’ll be caring for…”

The rounds are easy and quiet. Most of the ICU patients are fairly simple to care for, despite needing close monitoring as many are in induced comas. After a few days, Angela ends up helping nurses on the physical therapy floor below in addition to her ICU duties. Her schedule fluxes and shifts as Adhimore utilizes her as an exceptionally skilled intern, but one thing does remain constant. As Moira suggests, tea becomes a habit for the two of them: two Europeans indulging in a practice the colonies had long abandoned in the harbor. It’s not terribly unlike _zvieri _at home; it's a comfort. 

They discuss patient health, Angela’s studies, and Moira’s research, as well as the occasional personal interests. It’s a professional relationship that Angela enjoys, being under the tutelage of a woman well-respected in her field. Especially since her short time in the states has left her feeling lonely and uprooted, Angela can appreciate that Moira seems to understand her woes.

The tremors start two weeks after she starts at Adhimore General.

At first, they’re barely noticeable.

Between her night classes, afternoon rotations, and poor diet, Angela first attributes her shaking hands to poor nutrition and a lack of sleep. She adjusts her diet, vitamins and adds a nap into her schedule. More often than usual, she finds herself switching hands to keep her mug from trembling during daily tea, using whatever hand is steadier to grip the handle and keep the hot liquid from spilling onto her scrubs.

Eventually, it becomes an issue of gross motor control when the tremors reach her elbows. She runs some of her own tests in her free time and finds nothing. Even when combined with other symptoms such as fatigue and tachycardia, nothing jumps out as a cause. Ever the helpful mentor, Moira assists her with some of the more difficult diagnostics, even suggests she takes some time off from school.

Angela refuses, save for a single afternoon to see a neurologist. 

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, but it has to be psychosomatic.” The neurologist wrings her hands together. “You tested negative for both MS and Parkinson’s. You did your own MRI and we double-checked your scans. You haven’t had a stroke or experienced brain trauma. Honestly, besides suggesting physical therapy, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”

The nurse takes it upon himself to give her some more candid advice as he leaves Angela to redress. “Try cutting out some stress in your life.” 

_ Stress. Fancy that. _

Frustrated, Angela goes home and takes a nap, then wakes early to modify a simple set of stabilizing arm braces to keep her arms from shaking. The long sleeves of her lab coat and turtlenecks easily hide the devices. When Moira asks after her condition during tea later that week, Angela simply smiles and declares the issue handled. At work, home, and school, she keeps working around the issue until it can no longer be worked around.

Nearly a month and a half after starting in the Adhimore General ICU, Angela collapses in the cafeteria while accompanying a patient to lunch. One moment she’s standing and directing the wheelchair user through the lunch crowd.

Then suddenly, she’s seizing, striking her head on a table's edge, and succumbing to darkness.

* * *

When Angela wakes up again, she’s intubated. It’s not a comfortable position to be in, with a tube down her trachea. Her instinct is to cough, but she realizes she can’t even do that. She’s paralyzed, barely even conscious.

_ If I had surgery, they wouldn't let me wake up with the tube in. Am I dreaming? _

Eyes wide, she looks around the room, straining her eye muscles. She can hear the sound of the privacy curtains being drawn closed, a chair being pulled closer, the sluggish beeping of a heart monitor, and—

A familiar soft chuckle at her side.

_ Moira? _

Angela tries to blink rapidly to get her attention, but it’s not only impossible but unnecessary. The redhead already has her eyes on Angela. 

_ What is she- _

“Ah, there you are. Now, I don’t usually do this, but I thought a proper goodbye would be appropriate, considering the nature of our relationship,” Moira murmurs, steepling her fingers as she takes a look at Angela’s vitals. “It’s truly fascinating. The amount of nerve damage you sustained before succumbing.”

_Nerve damage? Oh god, _ she _ did this? _

“Do you ever miss your family?” Moira asks, suddenly meeting her gaze again.

_ What? It’s been years! I was a kid. I barely- _

“I’ve been told grief never truly subsides. I can only imagine how you’ve felt all these years.” Moira folds her hands under her chin; she's wearing nitrile gloves. “I suppose I’m doing _ you _ a favor as well.”

_ Please let this be some sort of bad joke. A twisted initiation or something- _

It’s at this point that Angela truly begins to struggle in earnest, trying to make anything move- fingertips, her mouth, her legs. Only her eyelids respond and she blinks rapidly.

_ Moira, what are you doing? Please- _

“No, no. Don't struggle. You've already have lived quite the life, haven’t you?” Moira reaches over and fiddles with one of the machines as Angela’s terror begins to mount. “Two years in pre-med, five years in med, small town doctor by the age of twenty-four. And to think you came to the states to do even more.”

_ Where's the nurse? A roommate? Please- _

“One life lost to save more than a half-dozen others is a sacrifice that not many can make. Most get caught up in the emotional side of it all, even when the logic is clear, but I think you’ll understand.”

_ You can’t just- _ Angela blinks, a tear slipping down her cheek. She looks around wildly as if she could will her body to do something. _ I’m too young! I’ve barely even started living my life yet! _

Moira wipes the tear away and readies a small syringe. “It won’t hurt at all. It’s a noble sacrifice.”

_You can't do this! I haven’t even done anything worth leaving behind! _

Angela watches in abject horror as Moira lifts her hand and injects the solution into her IV port. Despite the inability to move, she can still feel the cold solution entering her vein. Perhaps it's her imagination, but she can feel it moving toward her core with each beat of her heart.

_I didn't do anything—!_

Moira says nothing. Angela stares into her mismatched gaze, but she remains utterly unswayed, passive and unsympathetic. Straightening up, Moira caps the syringe and slips it back into the pocket of her lab coat. As she reconnects the ventilator to her tube, Angela begins to feel cold. Despite being such a basic biological mechanism, her body doesn't even seem to be able to shiver.

_Not like this..._

Moira puts the chair back, moving about the room to replace everything as it was. She turns out the bedside lamp, leaving only the overhead lights on. Still, she doesn't remove her gloves, even as she slips through the curtains at the foot of the bed.

Moira doesn't look back.

_No... please..._

With the tube down her throat, Angela couldn’t even scream if her larynx was working or if anyone was listening. Whatever Moira’s dosed her with works fast, making her thoughts, and her heart, slow.

_Someone... help me!_

The last confirmation of her killer's presence is when, somewhere beyond the room's privacy curtain, Moira turns the ceiling lights off, plunging Angela's world into darkness. Once she turns out the light, her tall silhouette is no longer visible. For a moment, Angela thinks she's left quietly.

That is until Moira lifts her voice just enough to be heard. 

"Goodnight, Angela." Moira pauses and Angela can just barely hear the sound of the door handle turning. "And godspeed." 

The door shuts. 

The room is silent, save for the heart monitor. Angela listens to the beeping slow down, listens to herself slipping away in real-time.

_Please, _Angela thinks, another set of tears running down her cheeks as her eyes slip shut against her will._ Please,_ _god, no._

_ Please, I don’t want to die alone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago on twitter, I promised I'd make Moira a mission-type serial killer and well... yeah.


	2. peter's on vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela wakes up- incorporeal, dead, but otherwise intact.  
Being dead is quite the experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning: emotional reactions to one's own death, callous discussion about a post-mortem organ donor (which is highly fictionalized; my research indicates that post-mortem organ donation is a very respectful process), cliff hanger**

Angela watches them try to revive her. 

They bring in a crash cart and try to restart her heart for more time than she cares to keep track. It’s sickeningly bizarre, watching herself jerk and fall still with each of the defibrillator shocks.

Her tears don’t really exist as she’s used to them. They feel like icicles flowing down her cheeks. It’s so uncomfortable that she tries to stop crying as quickly as possible. She can’t seem to move far from her body at all, so she sits on the edge of the bed, next to her own feet. She watches them shine penlights into her dead blue eyes and put stethoscopes to her stilled heart.

Soon after her official time of death is announced, they reconnect to her the ventilator once more. For a moment, Angela pushes through the fog of shock and racks her brain, trying to remember why she was already intubated.

_ Right, I fell... and I was in a coma. I suppose Moira woke me up just so she could gloat..._

Her chest begins to rise and fall again, but without any charisma to the movements. Without even thinking, Angela mimics the motion, then stops short when she realizes that there's no need. She swallows her anger before it can make her cry any harder.

Moira is conspicuously absent.

“I guess she already did what she needed to do,” Angela mutters, mostly to hear herself speak. Her voice falls short as if dampened by a dense fog. She reaches out and tries to smooth out the blanket covering her legs, but her fingers fizzle out as they near it. Her vaguely translucent form doesn’t seem to be able to actively interact with the living world.

She can feel but not be touched.

She can see but not be seen.

She can hear but not be heard.

Angela watches the crash team file out, taking their equipment with them. For a little while, she gets to sit alone with her body. She gets up, paces around the bed, tries to fix her hair. Angela tries to read her charts but she can't flip the pages to see her own cause of death.

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid... _She kneels at the foot of her bed and glares at the clipboard there. _Why is all the important stuff anywhere but the first page?_

She gives up eventually, instead trailing her hands over the dark equipment screens and resting her hands on the ventilator. When she concentrates, she can feel the vibrations thrumming through her ethereal form.

It's odd. She pulls her hands away.

Angela does everything she can to keep from looking at her dead body, but there's nothing else to look at. Even mostly covered by a blanket, her face and hair alone are mesmerizing. After all, she's never seen her face from such an angle.

When she realizes she's crying again, she forces herself to look away in the most efficient way she knows how. 

Angela crawls under the bed.

Under the bed, she doesn't feel much different. She still continues to cry, curling into the fetal position.

_Keep it together._

It's not easy. Neither deep breathing nor hyperventilating hold any purpose nor detriment. She tries to count the bones in her body before realizing that her _actual_ bones lay above her, trapped in dying flesh. Even humming doesn't work— the pitch is muffled, wrong.

It feels like hours something until else happens. When she hears the door creak open, Angela hurriedly scrubs her cheeks free of tears.

_Idiot. No one can see you._

She crawls to the far side of the bed and peeks over it, watching the organ allocation assessment team file into the room. They circle the bed and Angela climbs back onto it and sits, trying to avoid their steps.

One of them begins reviewing the legal procedures and Angela only partly listens to the complicated jargon. She hugs her knees to her chest.

_At least I don't phase through myself._

Living world things can pass through her, she finds, as one of the legal team passes a manilla patient folder right through her face.

_ How would I have any next of kin when I'm new to a country and alone in the world? _

Angela had told Moira all of that within a day of meeting her. 

_ But Moira must have known before I told her. Wouldn’t she have read my application? _

She thinks back to their early conversations. So casual. It’s hard to remember if anything ever felt wrong at the time because every thought of the other doctor clouds over with red.

_ She didn’t pick me to be her understudy because I was bright. _

Angela feels sick to her stomach, or whatever it is that’s inside of her now.

Not wanting to think about that, Angela looks around and glares at the seven people in suits and face masks, gathered around her body like it’s some sort of exhibit, already chattering excitedly about the pieces of her that they want.

_ Isn't it night time? What, did they wake up and rush here to see? Are they… are they in on it? _

“I’m right here,” Angela says loudly. She climbs onto her body and waves her hands in front of them, knowing full well that it won’t work. “This isn’t an auction.”

_ “Never smoked, no kids, no surgeries. No bloodborne pathogens. Young and healthy aside from the nerve degeneration. Prime years of her life, honestly.” _

“I’m human! This isn’t a slaughterhouse!” Angela whirls to confront the man standing at the front of the bed, reading off of her charts. “You can’t just-”

They don’t hear her, of course. Even to Angela, her own voice is muffled, stiffled by the invisible fog.

_ “Kidneys, lungs, heart, liver, pancreas. I mean she’s in perfect condition.” _

“I’m not a piece of meat you can just cut up and dish out-!”

_ “A negative, too. What a blessing. That’s already three recipients who can be accepted off our list.” _

“I could have saved more lives if I was alive! I shouldn’t be dead at this age!”

_ “Crazy how we can give out so young. Live fast, am I right?” _

“I didn’t do this on _purpose_! I didn’t _want_ to die!” Angela wails, trying to tear out her hair. It slips through her fingers, even less corporeal than she is.

_ “Sometimes burnout is physical, too.” _

She kneels over her torso, punching at her body with every syllable and feeling the sensation fizzle out before she makes contact. “I- Did- Not- Want- This! Stop it, stop it, stop it! _Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!_ _WAKE UP!!!_” 

For a moment, the silence makes it seem like she’s been heard-

_ “We can only keep the body like this for 24 hours, right?” _

_ “Let me just make some calls…” _

“_ Please… _ ” A broken sob tears its way out of Angela’s throat as she collapses over her lifeless form, hot tears running down her cheeks. “It’s my _ body… _ it’s _ me...” _

She doesn’t know how long she lays there, but eventually, the warmth drains from her form and leaves her cold once more. The room is dim and empty. When she sits up, Angela can see the glow of the rising sun through the privacy curtain.

Her body’s chest continues to rise and fall beneath her. Numb to the sight, she slides off the bed and stumbles toward the window. The curtain blocks her passage.

Unlike a ghost, she can’t pass through it. Unlike a person, she can’t push it aside. And above all else, the intangible tether of her body remains, keeping her from going too far.

_ Trapped in a room with a body that I can no longer have and a sun I can’t see... _

Frustrated, Angela plucks at her own fingertips, pinching harder and harder in an attempt to feel something, but there’s no pain and only the barest hint of pressure. She can’t help but notice that her motor control is excellent, just as good as it was before she started shaking all those weeks ago.

Angela buries her face in her palms, not caring how her tears feel like acute frostbite on her skin again. She screams wordlessly, wondering how long she can. After all, she doesn’t exactly need to breathe—

“Are you Ms. Angela Ziegler?”

“I am a _doctor. You_ _will refer to me as such.” _Angela snaps, whirling and fixing the owner of the new voice with a deadly glare. In her anger, her face warms, negating the effect of her tears almost instantly. Angela maintains her scowl, but privately, her curiosity stirs. For just a moment, she felt…

_ Wait, he can see me? _

She scans him, taking in his vest and crisp dress shirt over a pair of slacks and sensible boots. The most interesting thing about him is a dark blue utility belt and the slate-gray clipboard in his hands. With his olive-toned skin and dark curly hair, the man could be anyone. He adjusts his glasses and looks down at his clipboard. 

“Ah, yes, my apologies. _Doctor_ Angela Ziegler. Very well then. I am Keres, a soul accountant. Are you aware of your current situation?”

“You mean the fact that I was _murdered?” _She scoffs, feeling the warmth in her cheeks spread. “Or the fact that I’m still here?”

The man pauses. “Well, I do apologize for the wait. We’ve been a bit backed up with deaths lately. You humans really don’t know when to stop killing each other. But yes, you've been murdered.”

Angela rolls her eyes.

“Let’s continue. Do you officially relinquish your claim to the life of Dr. Angela Ziegler, aged 27 years, 11 weeks and 3 days?”

Angela blows the hair out of her face and narrows her eyes. “I take it there’s no chance of getting it back?”

“No. Refusal to relinquish simply results in a wandering shade.”

Angela has seen enough ghost movies to know that’s a terrible idea. She sighs, feeling colder by the moment. “I relinquish my claim on my life.”

“A good decision,” says Keres. He removes a small pair of golden scissors from his breast pocket and approaches her artificially breathing body.

“Hey-!” Angela’s fear turns to curiosity as he starts snipping at a translucent jelly-like substance coming from her physical heart, which was definitely not visible before. “What is that?”

Keres doesn’t answer and simply begins to roll it up like an unruly yarn ball. Angela inches closer and watches transfixed as he reaches her own chest and sets about detaching it from her hazy form.

The resulting blob is about the size of a basketball. He takes out a monocle and begins to examine it.

“It’s Potential,” he announces a lifetime later. “It’s what you could have done, had your life not been cut short.”

_There's no way.... it's enormous..._ Angela’s thought train completely derails. “Is this a joke?”

“Not at all. Your Manifest is usually tied to your last living thoughts in some way. Potential is a fairly common result.” Keres tucks his monocle and scissors away, then sets the mass on the bed. It doesn’t make an indent on the blanket. “May we continue? I have other clients and as a doctor, I’m sure you can empathize.”

"I find your lack of a bedside manner a bit odd."

Keres shrugs. "It's not as if I can change what's happened. What's done is done."

The thought brings her no comfort. Angela narrows her eyes at him. “Right. Go on then."

“Thank you." Keres taps his clipboard. "Are you aware of the cause of your death?”

“Do I look like a coroner?” Angela frowns, thinking hard nevertheless. “I don’t know. Cardiac arrest? Can’t be total organ failure because I wouldn’t be hospital _ charcuterie_.”

Keres looks up from his clipboard. He does not look amused.

Angela cards her fingers through her hair and groans. “Look, I have no clue. Prolonged exposure to nerve agents? The next thing I knew I was in a coma. Then she injected me with something. It could have been air for all I know. I wasn’t exactly _ lucid._”

“Cause of death: administration of unknown agent by Moira O’Deorain, resulting in cardiac arrest. Classified as medical malpractice.” Keres speaks slowly as he scribbles on his clipboard.

While he writes, Angela’s gaze strays to the gelatinous blob next to her body. “What are you going to do with that?” 

“That was next to be addressed. Typically, Manifests are disposed of at the conclusion of our session.” Keres holds the clipboard upright. “Would you like to keep it?”

_ I don’t need it. _ She chews on her lip, mesmerized by the odd staticky feeling the motion generates. _ But what can it hurt? _

“I mean, it’s mine. I may as well.” Angela reaches for the blob, keeping an eye on Keres in case she’s doing something wrong. He doesn’t react as she picks it up and holds it close to her chest.

_ It’s warm… _Sighing, she cradles it close with her left arm, seeking the warmth that her incorporeal form doesn’t seem to consistently produce. She can hear him still scribbling, even as she closes her eyes and tries to ignore the machinated breathing of her body.

“And one last question, Dr. Ziegler. Seeing as you are a victim of Moira O’Deorain, would you be interested in being privy to her post-mortem punishment in 33 years, 18 weeks, and 2 days?”

_ Is that the day that bitch—? _Angela’s eyes fly open, face contorted into a snarl. “Absolutely.”

Keres smiles pleasantly, unbothered. “Until that day, we would require you to provide an occasional judgment of other medical malpractice cases, as the judge, jury, etc.”

“And after she’s dead?”

“You’ll be free to seek fulfillment however it best suits you.”

Angela nods and extends a hand. It seems like the proper thing to do. “Fine. It’s better than moping around forever.”

Keres pulls out a self-inking stamp from his waist pouch and stamps the papers on his clipboard several times. “Excellent. Your liaison will be here shortly.”

“Liaison?” Angela lets her hand droop.

Keres waves and disappears in a puff of silvery smoke.

Before she can figure out what to do next, what she can only describe as a demon appears in front of her. He reaches out and grasps her wrist- the one of the hand that Keres left hanging. Angela gasps as she realizes she can _ feel _his claws digging into her arm as he smiles wide to reveal razor-sharp teeth and the brilliant candy red flare of his irises.

“Wait-” Angela yelps, realizing how quickly she’d agreed to what she didn’t understand. Coming to her senses, she cries out, trying to back away from him. She tries to drop the Potential to get more leverage, but the blob sticks fast to her chest and left arm.

“_No! Wait!” _

“Thank you for your contract, Dr. Ziegler,” purrs the demon with a sickly smirk. “I’ll have you transferred immediately.”

The last thing Angela sees is the flames of an all-consuming inferno.

The last thing Angela hears is her own screams of terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus a tiny beginning of an answer to the question I've been avoiding: why is Mercy Like THAT(tm)?  
Answer pt. 1: she died young. she *is* young. ten years younger than canon.


	3. walk in wearing fetters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dying.  
Dead.  
Undead.
> 
> Angela wakes up, dazed and confused, for the third time.  
Maybe this time, it'll stick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning: gore, lots of gore, cliff hanger (get used to that one) that's all i can think of...**

Angela cannot breathe. 

Many thoughts come to mind but the first is that she hasn’t taken a breath in at least twenty minutes, maybe longer. She doesn't know how she knows that but it makes sense somehow. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She can't see. Her body is numb with a lack of sensation. All she can understand is that she's floating in _something._

It's not much longer before the pressure in her lungs becomes unbearable. Instinctively, she tries to inhale and immediately gets a mouthful of _ rot. _

_ Rot? _ Angela covers her mouth, trying to spit out what she's inhaled. _ Rotting? Rotten? _

Choking and gulping, she struggles, unable to open her eyes at all. The claustrophobic helplessness of drowning begins to creep in, igniting a frenzy of panic. She kicks and scratches until she hits a wet, soft membrane. Angela surges toward it, following the muffled drone of liquid escaping through the hole she's made.

_ Oh god, please let me breathe, please. _

She breaks the surface of the sticky, fetid liquid and gasps, still clawing at the hole. The sound that she hears can only be described as wet paper tearing. The dribbling of the liquid advances to a roaring sound and for the first time, Angela realizes she’s being dragged out with it.

“Help!” She coughs, only to get a mouthful of the rancid liquid again. “Hel-”

The wall, or floor, gives way and suddenly she’s falling through the air. Still unable to see, she screams, bracing for impact, only to land shortly in a wet, squishy pile with a sopping _ squelch. _

For a moment, she lays there winded on her back, breathing in broken sobs. Then she scrabbles frantically at her eyes. Once the crust is clear, she can finally see.

And what a sight it is.

Above her, dozens of red, pulsating sacs hang suspended from a domed ceiling some thirty meters above her. The walls are also the same wet red, but the floor is polished white and gleaming. _ Directly _above her, one of the sacs has broken open. The remains of the uvula-like sac drips a huge drop of blood about a meter to her left. Wincing at the splash, Angela sits up slowly.

All around her is _ red. _

Transfixed, she picks up and examines a chunk of material next to her. Visible in it are bits of muscle, organs, and teeth, all covered in the same thick, gelatinous mixture of blood and mucus that covers her skin. There are snarls of hair sticking out of it, and honestly, it reminds her of the discards of an abattoir: congealed messes of whatever was left once the cuts of meat were sliced and apportioned. _That _field trip alone had been enough to beg her parents for permission to be vegetarian.

When she turns the chunk of cobbled flesh over, a single eye stares up at her.

It blinks.

Angela screams, chucking the hunk of flesh away from her and trying to scramble backward out of the pile. She stumbles and falls back onto her ass, tumbling over until she lands awkwardly on her knees, complete with squishing, sopping noises for every movement. Confused as to what tripped her, she looks up at the meat pile. Nothing’s big enough to do so. She looks behind her.

Her tail twitches.

Angela can’t help but scream again, even though she’s too weak to run. She buries her face in her hands and tries to calm her panic, even biting her own hand to do so. That only makes it worse, because she’s covered in the same putrid blood that everything else was.

While she’s vomiting dark red bile onto the tile floor, she hears someone approaching.

“Welcome to the Heap, freshie!” 

Angela shrieks a third time as the imp bounds over to her. She tries to crawl backward but trips over her tail again. Tears spring to her eyes as the demon crouches next to her and peers into her eyes.

_Ah, poor sap has no clue what’s going on. _

_ What? _

“Name’s Fawkes! You remember anything, girlie?” The demon strokes his dark grey beard and looks her over. Angela glances down and realizes that, aside from the thick film of rapidly congealing blood, she is as naked as the day she was born. She crosses her arms over herself.

“Don’t get full of yourself; you ain’t no succubus!” He barks out a laugh. “‘m just curious. Every piece o’ fresh meat is real different. I’ve seen my share.”

He raises his bushy eyebrows expectantly, gesturing at her. Ignoring his offered hand, Angela gets to her feet, trying to ignore the swishing of her tail. “Did you just… call me fresh meat?”

“Walk with me. I’ll get backed up on arrivals if you wanna sit here and chat the whole time.”

Her companion sets off in a seemingly random direction. She takes a tentative step after step, walking behind the goat-demon. His gait sounds odd and she realizes one of his hooves is a prosthetic. He also has a tail, though it’s tufted with fur. As she gets a little closer, she does notice that he’s wearing a little fancy vest and button-up, even though he seems to rely on fur to preserve any modesty below the waist.

Angela stops for a moment.

_ What am I doing? _

She turns back to take a look at the pile of flesh that she’d crawled out of and shudders. Looking down, she realizes she’s leaving a trail of bloody footprints. It’s a grotesque scene, no matter how she spins it. 

_ But where else would I go? I don’t know where I am. _

“Oi, sheila! You comin’ or what?”

“And uh… if I didn’t want to?”

Fawkes raises an eyebrow. “Early contract termination means you gotta hit Oblivion. In this case, they put you in the meat grinder first. Otherwise, it’s a waste of good meat.”

_ That doesn’t sound good at all. _

Angela stumbles as she tries to run and catch up. “And why do I feel so… unstable?”

“You’re fresh meat! Ain’t been cured yet.”

Her eye twitches as she falls into step alongside him. “That explains nothing.”

“Well, do you wanna answer my first question?” When she stares up at him blankly, he goes on. “You remember anything at all?”

_It's... so fuzzy... why can't I remember clearly?_

“I…” She hugs herself, wincing at the sticky film on her skin. “I died. I was murdered.”

“Sucks, don’t it?” He laughs.

Angela grimaces. “Is that funny to you?”

“Everyone here is dead! And a helluva lot of ‘em were murdered. You ain’t special.”

Angela stares at her feet as she continues to walk across the tile. She takes a closer look at it and realizes the polished white surface isn’t tile, but a collection of jumbled bones held together somehow.

_Gelatin, I suppose. How… pleasant. _ Angela chokes back bile. “Is there anything here that isn’t made of body parts?”

“Nope!”

“It’s just all... “

“It’s the _Visceral_ Heap, sheila! Heap, for short.” He peers down at her-

_ Did we get a new assignment? _

“Folks ain’t usually interested in the Heap this much.”

Angela blinks in confusion, shaking the weird thought from her head. “I’m trying to take one thing at a time.”

“Well, there’s your next thing,” he gestures to the glistening white archway in the distance. Even from where she is, she can see it’s made out of enormous rib bones.

“I don’t understand _ this _ yet.” Angela bristles, jumping as her tail stands up behind her.

The demon gestures to the ceiling. “Souls sit in a sac until a new body’s made for ‘em-”

Angela stops walking. “I already _ had _a body.”

He doesn’t stop walking, even as he throws his head back and laughs. “That body’s no good.”

Considering this, Angela carefully jogs back to his side. She can't help but glance down. “This… It’s not… like my other one.” 

_ This one is… perfect… except for the tail... _

She stares up at the arch as she passes underneath. She almost runs into her guide while staring at the markings carved on the mammoth bones. They’re not in any language she knows.

“Special body for special job.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Welcome to the Bath!”

The bath smells vaguely of sulphur. It really resembles a moorland, with numerous pools of water, all ringed by crystals of varying colors. It also seems to be empty. All around the room are more bone rib archways. The silence is eerie, even more so than the flesh room she’d just left.

“Where is everyone else?” Angela peers into the pools as they pass them by, but the steam obscures her view. “Are these hot springs?”

The other demon doesn’t seem to hear her as he hops from pool to pool, looking for something that Angela can’t identify. Angela follows him slowly, hugging herself as the moisture in the room begins to condensate on her bloody skin.

“Here’s yours!’

Angela pads over. Her bath is about the same circumference as a children's pool but deep enough that the water gets dark at the bottom, or what passes for it. Her reflection is murky, but she can make out the shape of horns jutting from her skull. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise her. 

The crystals around it look like some sort of amethyst quartz formation. She crouches down and strokes the edge of one of the crystals. Then she looks up at the goat-demon.

“Why is _ this _one mine?”

_ She sure does ask a shitton of questions! _

Anger flaring, Angela narrows her eyes and interrupts before he can answer. “Well, _ excuse me, _for having so many questions but you've explained precisely _nothing_!”

He looks to the ceiling and lets out a low whistle. “You’ll get all’a that after this. I’m just your ferryman.”

“So what do I need to know, then?” Angela can feel her tail whipping back and forth and hear it slapping wetly against her blood-soaked skin. “Surely you must be able to tell me _ something_.”

“Three things: you jump in there, you don’t panic no matter wha’ happens, and you go to the big gates when you get out. That’s all.” He ticks these off on his fingers. 

Angela nods, committing the simple steps to memory. That she can hold onto. That she can understand, at least somewhat.

“Just jump in?” She stares at the steaming water and reworks her next question into a statement, however sarcastic. “I don’t feel like drowning.”

“Won’t kill ya again!” He cackles. “You’re fiesty, I’ll give ya that. Here, lemme give you a freebie.”

Still crouched, Angela holds her ground as he approaches, drawing himself up to full height and locking his green eyes with hers.

_ I’d be careful about revealing your abilities to every bloke on the street. _

Her eyes widen as the realization dawns on her.

"Now jump in, before I throw ya!"

Angela looks from Fawkes and back to the pool. 

"Thanks. I think." She murmurs, slowly standing again. The demon takes a little bow but doesn't make any move to go back the way they came. If she had to guess, he'd wait until she jumped in or take her to the meat grinder if she did not.

_ Okay, just jump, Angela. You're already dead. It can't hurt you. _She reaches behind her and clutches her tail to her chest, wary of the sharp crystals. Then she backs up until her ankles brush the crystals of an adjacent pool, dashes forward, and leaps into the pool feet first. The arc of her jump seems to take forever as she sails through the air. She doesn't close her eyes though. Angela watches the dark surface of the water get closer and closer, knowing that there's nothing she can do to reverse her decision.

The pool swallows her without so much as a splash.


	4. pearly gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela sinks into her pool. Her world turns upside down and she finally gets a few answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter warnings: mild body horror_

Rather than hitting the bottom of the pool, Angela realizes that she's just sinking, being dragged down by a rough and relentless current. The water hisses around her like peroxide in an bloody wound, creating a rush of bubbles that makes it impossible to hear anything else. She struggles, but no amount of flailing stops her descent.

She lets go of her tail and opens her eyes.

Her skin is clear of blood now, and even in the water she can see it's paler well beyond her normal tone. But something else—

_ Oh god- _

The breath Angela's been holding escapes in a bubbling, wordless scream. Boiling water rushes into her lungs, filling her with a searing heat unlike any she has ever known. Unable to process the pain, she curls into a fetal position, digging into her skin with claws beyond her usual nails.

Her back erupts. From her shoulders to her waist, twin jolts redefine her very definition of agony.

_ Don't panic! _

She can feel something _ moving- _

_ Oh god, please nothing else! _

She abruptly slows down, yanked by the drag of what she can only assume are her new pair of wings. Angela's grip on her legs loosens along with her grip on consciousness. The water continues to drag her body deeper and Angela simply allows it, sinking into the darkness with some semblance of relief and exhaustion.

A splitting headache drags her back to consciousness again. She comes to, floating limply in the water. The heat comforts her from every angle. Angela pushes her hair out of her face so it floats out of her way and paddles until she can face the direction she’s being carried. 

While she was unconscious, the current began to push her upward. She struggles to pull her wings in close to her back. It doesn't take visual confirmation to know they're relatively small. As she nears the surface, she can begin to examine herself. Without the film of blood, her skin is deathly pale, paler than it had ever been in life and instead of a ruddy undertone, it takes on an almost lilac persuasion, giving her skin a thin, silvery appearance. Her nails and hair stand out in sharp contrast, an ebony darker than a moonless night.

The strength the water gives her is almost unnoticeable until she breaks the surface of the pool. Angela wades, stumbles and crawls onto the pebbled shore, struggling to get out of the lapping waves. Gagging, she collapses, sucking in breaths that she clearly doesn't need but nevertheless still desires.

Eventually, she finds the strength to roll over and sit up. She looks out over the body of water that she’s emerged from. Steam rises from it, obscuring the horizon line. The sky is red, stormy with lightning flickering in dark clouds.

“Go to the gate,” Angela murmurs to herself, twisting until she can see the land beyond the shore. In the distance, a silver gate looms. The gleaming structure is the only blemish in an otherwise impeccable sheer, black cliff side which casts its huge shadow over the beach.

Aside from the waves, it’s silent.

When she finally gets to her feet, she immediately recognizes how much stronger her body feels. Despite being overcooked from the sea’s scalding water, Angela feels stable.

"Okay, cured… meat. Wonderful," Angela says a little louder. A little further away from shore, she spies a barren tree with long flowing leaves. The pebbles underfoot give way to dry grasses and sandy soil as she approaches it.

The leaves turn out to be tunics. There’s even belts, though they look like dead vines at first glance. Angela pulls one of each down from the branches, half expecting them to be made of body parts like everything in the Heap. Instead, it’s a coarse linen and when she arranges it right, it does cover most of her body. Only her arms, feet, and the bottom length of her tail are exposed. Her wings struggle beneath the covering, but Angela only pulls the belt tighter and ignores them.

As she treks across the open plain, no one comes to greet her. The gate looms in the distance, growing infinitesimally larger with every step. It's completely made of a shining silvery metal, with no way to see what's beyond it. Without scenery, she turns her attention to her footsteps. Pebbles give way to coarse black sand and soil. The substrate is warm underfoot but never uncomfortable. Her ceaseless shuffle never needs to be any faster than a leisurely walk. Though her strength is in no short supply, Angela can't help but find herself feeling _ listless. _

_ One step in front of the other. _

When she notices the ground beneath her feet transition to smooth black rock, she looks up. She's close enough to see her reflection in the glistening metal of the gate.

Angela stops in shock.

"What _ am _ I?" Angela whispers. Seeing her jet black horns and hair, marble skin and violet irises, nearly stops her heart— or whatever is thumping just beneath her sternum. There are _ horns _above her eyebrows and her ears taper to a sharp point.

The gate creaks open, startling Angela so badly that she jumps twice— first at the sound, second at the way her tail lashes in fear.

When nothing emerges, Angela forces herself to look away from her reflection and inch through the gap in the gate. As soon as she steps into the glaring light, a powerful wind sweeps through behind her, shoving her further through and slamming the gate behind her.

Angela stumbles, just barely managing to stay on her feet. She feels behind herself for her tail, sighing in relief when it is there in one piece. She turns, looking for the door but there's nothing there, not even a wall. 

“Hello there!”

Angela squints in the brightness, trying to find the source of the booming, accented voice. Her ears twitch as she strains in vain to pinpoint the sound.

“Wait a moment! All will become clear.”

Angela looks around cautiously. As she does, the blinding white light begins to fade. In the ensuing gloom, she makes out a row of glass teller windows, complete with small stools in front of each one. Only one remains brightly lit as the others dim to pale red light, leaving Angela unable to see her hand in front of her face.

Behind the illuminated window sits an enormous creature. With the sharp contrast, Angela struggles to make out anything besides its enormous shape.

“You may approach, little one,” the shape booms. It’s not that the creature is yelling, she realizes as she puts her hands over her ears. Her ears are just sensitive and the creature is simply loud. 

Angela does as asked, padding over to the window on soft soles. In fact there is little sound, aside from her tunic shifting against her belt. She glances to the left and right at the empty teller stations and stools. They stretch on into the darkness with dim red glows that give way easily to the abyss. There’s no doubt in her mind that they are endless, if not mirrored.

The thought of a mirror hallway frightens her, but she stops herself from reaching out to feel a solid surface on either side of her.

_ Stupid. Wouldn’t I see myself? And wouldn't the lights be white?  
_

Angela reaches the counter and climbs onto the stool. The fabric sticks uncomfortably to her skin and she climbs off to rearrange her tunic and tail to be more comfortable. Finally situated, she peers up at the hulking form behind the partition.

“Hello, little one,” murmurs the creature. He leans down, resting his chin on the desk just to be able to look her in the eye. "How are you feeling?"

"I really hate that question," Angela blurts, fighting the urge to continue rearranging her tunic. It's beginning to chafe in uncomfortable places.

For a moment, his wide eyes blink in confusion, but then the creature bursts into laughter, throwing his head back in mirth. Adjusted to the lighting, Angela can see him properly now. The face of a man sports thick, white eyebrows, mustache, and beard. One eye is marred by a thick scar that extends from his brow to his cheek. His literal mane of white hair extends from his forehead and sideburns in a radiant pattern; it takes Angela a moment to realize his ears are missing. She finds them on top of his head- two golden lion ears peek out from his mane. As he indulges in a great belly laugh, Angela realizes his face is his most, if not only, human feature. A handsome swell of chest fur sprouts from the top of his burgundy waistcoat, which allows his furry arms and paws the freedom to move around. Behind him, rather than a lion tail, she can see a scorpion tail, tipped with a wicked stinger.

_ What is he? _

The creature wipes the tears from his eyes like a house cat as his chuckles die down. Then he resumes his position at eye level with Angela.

"Never mind that then, hm?" He grins kindly but the effect is somewhat ruined by the mouth of sharp teeth. "Surely you must have questions."

Angela looks down at her hands, twisted together in a frustrated knot. A sigh passes through her lips.

_ I'm tired. _

There's so many questions she could ask, so many questions she wants to ask and so many she figures she is supposed to ask. They swirl around in a maelstrom of thoughts.

"Why can't I think properly?" Angela mumbles finally.

“You’re still in a Death Haze," he explains quietly, stroking his beard. “It’ll wear off in another day or so. It’s normal for new souls who’ve just left the Sea.”

_ Death Haze… So I am… truly dead. Permanently. _

"Where is everyone else?"

"There's other Hadeans around you. You just can't see them." He chuckles, flicking his tongue out playfully. "We Tellers like to say it's your own personal Hell. But that wears off eventually too. After you've read the manual and had a few days to yourself."

"I… made a mistake, didn't I?" Angela sucks in a shallow breath as tears begin to gather in her eyes. "To be here… I didn’t think I’d been so_ awful _."

"Er, not quite. Hm, you're not asking the usual questions. Perhaps I should just start at the beginning. My name is Reinhardt and I'm your Teller." He reaches beneath the partition and places one huge paw over her hands. "You are dead and this is known as Hades, yes, but you're not here to be punished."

"Then why do I look like _ this? _ Why does everything _hurt?" _As if to demonstrate, her wings strain painfully against her tunic. "What is _ wrong _ with me?"

"You are mourning the loss of your human life, little one." Reinhardt reaches behind him and retrieves a file folder that matches the crimson of his waistcoat. "And that is the reason for the Death Haze; it keeps you calmer while you process. It begins to wear off faster when you accept your role."

"I don't even know what my role is," Angela sniffles, pulling her hands away from Reinhardt's paw to wipe the tears from her face. They're uncomfortably cold; the feeling is familiar but she struggles to place it.

"You, my dear, are the demon of medical malpractice!" Reinhardt slides the folder beneath the partition with a flourish. "You are the avenger of the wronged and the vessel of the vulnerable! The most feared by those who dare take advantage of the people they swore to protect! The one who punishes those who use the tools of good for evil!"

Angela stares at Reinhardt's antics, then pulls the folder closer to her. In precise, block lettering, the file details the method, time, and date of her death, as well as her killer and her eventual death date.

"Why medical malpractice?"

"It's the crime with which you are the most intimately familiar, no?"

_ Not by choice. _Angela hugs herself tight, struggling to process this revelation.

"So what do I do now?"

Reinhardt smiles wide. "You work! You learn how to Judge and answer Summons-"

"Summons?"

"Oh, the humans will begin to call upon you once you've been assigned a sigil. That will take four to five weeks. Business weeks, that is. Even we demons get weekends off, haha!" Reinhardt pulls the file folder back underneath the partition before Angela can flip through any other pages. "Your Manual will explain in even more detail than I can. Tellers are very general, but the Manual is for _ you! " _

_ This is beginning to feel like job orientation. _

"Okay."

They're both silent for a moment. Angela squirms on her stool before looking up at Reinhardt again. He raises his bushy eyebrows as their eyes meet, but Angela looks away just as quickly.

_ Why can't I hear anything from him? _

"Why is there glass?" asks Angela quietly. "Do people usually attack their Tellers?"

Reinhardt taps the clear partition with a laugh. "Ah, yes! The magi-glass! Magic filter and physical barrier. Before the Death Haze came about, they were meant to protect Tellers from new recruits. It's how we got the name!"

_ Demons… Recruits… Tellers… Hades... _

"Why didn't I just _ die?" _ Angela digs her nails into her palms, not caring about the pain that her sharp nails cause.

"Because you didn't want to," Reinhardt says softly. He rests his chin on his folded arms and waits for her to look up again. "You're exactly where you're meant to be."

"No, I… I wasn't… this wasn't supposed to happen," whispers Angela as tears blur the image of the other demon. "This isn't what my life is supposed to be like."

"Your life is over, little one!" Reinhardt gestures grandly, knocking over his chair in the process. "This is your _Unlife!_ Infinite and full of possibility! Grieve now, yes, but soon, you'll understand your purpose!"

Angela wipes at her face again, irritated at the cold tears and the Teller's buoyant attitude. 

"And you're one step closer to understanding now! Our time together is at an end!" At Angela's confused expression, Reinhardt points one claw over her shoulder. 

Angela turns to see a gnarled, black door a few meters behind her. It's not attached to any structure but it stands firmly, as if it sprouted from the marble floor itself. Its silver door handle gleams, reflecting the light from Reinhardt's teller window.

"Where did that come from?" Angela winces at the childish fear in her voice. "Where does it lead?"

_ At least this one doesn't mind my questions… or does he? Can I even know for sure? _

Reinhardt laughs, to her dismay. "It appears when I've told you everything you needed to hear from me. It leads to your living quarters where you'll spend some quality time with your Manual."

_ Thump. _Angela turns around to find Reinhardt shoving a tome as thick as her thigh beneath the partition.

_ The Demonic Manual of Dr. Angela Ziegler _has a soft leather cover. The title is black, meticulously burned into the soft purple fabric. She runs her fingers down the coarse-edged pages.

"Since I woke up, I've just been going through mysterious portals and getting less than satisfactory answers to my questions," Angela murmurs, no heat in her tone.

Reinhardt has such a fond expression when she looks up. She almost feels bad for the criticism, so she looks away. The book is still there, slightly warm to the touch. When she tries to open it, it remains firmly closed.

"I'm guessing I can't read it until I'm… in my living quarters?"

"I'm afraid so."

Angela scoots off the stool gingerly, gathering the book to her chest as she does so. A pained hiss slips past her lips as the book shoves the coarse linen against her chest.

"There's better clothes there, too."

"There had better be," Angela replies. That gets a hearty laugh out of Reinhardt.

Angela looks down at the book. Would it have all of her answers? Would anything? 

"Thank you, Reinhardt," Angela says, nodding stiffly. 

"Ah, don't say things you don't mean, little one!" Reinhardt flashes a brilliant smile at her. "But you are welcome all the same."

Angela turns away, embarrassed.

_ Another door. Another mystery. Another messenger with too few answers. _

She grips the handle; it's cool to the touch. When she pulls, it gives way easily, revealing smooth, white walls of another room. When she looks over her shoulder, Reinhardt is gone. His cubicle light winks out and two by two, the red lights on either side wink out as well, casting her into increasingly stifling darkness.

Unwilling to stay until the furthest light is extinguished, Angela steps through the door. It swings shut behind her, pushing her into the room.

_ Click. _

Angela strains to hear anything but the silence of this room is absolute. The marble tile under her bare feet is a cold black slab swirling with veins of white. The white walls shimmer and glisten with the lavender light from the windows. She crosses the room to get a glimpse of this strange new world.

The sky shimmers and swirls with purple. Silver clouds float slowly overhead. Multitudes of stars twinkle with unfamiliar constellations. And below it all lay a sprawling city of ashen white.

Tall columns of white stone and brick stretch toward the sky, punctuated by evenly spaced layers of porthole windows like the one she looks out of now.

Down below, black streets twist through the buildings, illuminated by pinpoints of orchid light. The distance to the streets seems to warp and stretch the longer she looks down, so Angela turns away from the window.

"I suppose this is a tower like the others then," Angela grumbles. She crosses the curved room to the door and tries to open it. It remains firmly shut. As she jimmies the door in its frame, it shudders; from the space between the door jamb and the door, a long card falls. It's a bookmark with a time stamp and as Angela picks it up, the number begins to decrease.

_ 52:00:00. _

_ 51:59:59 _

_ 51:59:58 _

It continues to count down as Angela stares at it. It could almost act like an old-fashioned alarm clock if she props it upright, since the numbers cover the bookmark from short end to short end. She flips it over. It reads:

_ “Once you have read your manual, you may open your door. If you do not by the time this clock runs down, the door will be opened. You have the power to decide how you enter this world: compliance or defiance.” _

“I suppose defiance would result in Oblivion?” Angela slips the still-counting bookmark between the pages of her Manual and looks around the room again. “I guess it helps that I’m a fast reader. And what if I’m tired?”

_ Do… demons get tired? I’m about to fall over... _

This section of the apartment has very little in the way of furniture. Only a small table and a very uncomfortable chair. To her left is a wall with an open doorway. To her right is a wall with two openings- one is a breakfast bar and the other is a floor-to-ceiling archway leading to a kitchen.

_ It’s a circle, isn’t it? _

Mentally, Angela flips a coin. She goes right.

The kitchen is luxurious, complete with an island and generous counter space. Except for the white-veined black marble floor that seens to extend throughout the apartment, everything is an unsettling shade of white, including all parts of the stove top, sink and refrigerator. Angela slides one hand to her stomach and decides that after all that time in the Heap, she’s still not very hungry. She moves onto the next room.

The fireplace is white marble bricks and devoid of any fuel; birch logs wouldn’t be out of place in it. A white fur rug adorns the floor in front of it and standing atop it is a short marble table surrounded by plush couches. Angela trails her hands over the headrest of one and finds, to no surprise, that it is made of a white leather. The white bookshelves lining the walls are empty.

Aside from the door leading further into the apartment, there’s a small offshoot room that turns out to be a small bathroom. The faucet runs clear and cold when she turns it on. The toilet flushes like any other she’s ever seen.

Angela walks quickly through the next room which, by all accounts, is empty. The room after is clearly meant to be her bedroom. Its circular windows look out over the same sprawling, empty city. It has a queen sized bed, an en-suite master bathroom and three other doors. The decor is unsurprisingly white as well. She sets her manual on the bedside table and begins to poke around.

One door doesn't open. The other two doors lead to walk-in closets. One is empty but the other closet is full of clothes, white, purple, and black with accents in the same colors. Angela shrugs out of her coarse tunic and drops it to the floor.

There’s dresses, jumpers, rompers, tunics, jeans, slacks, and button ups, all in those three colors. The fabrics look varied but Angela can’t make herself reach out and touch. She just stares at the wall of clothing and hugs herself, shivering.

“I just want something _ soft _,” Angela cries, wanting nothing more than to sink to the floor. Her body itches and stings, chafed in every crease by tunic’s abrasive nature. She looks around and a small dresser catches her eyes. What she finds there does bring tears to her eyes.

Cotton underwear.

Her relief screeches to a halt as she shimmies into a pair of purple briefs and runs into the underside of her tail. The pain is immediate, sharp and agonizing.

“Oh for _ fuck’s sake-” _ Angela grabs her tail and shoves it down through one of the leg holes. It’s uncomfortable but it allows her to pull the waistband up and over the base of her tail. Unfortunately, upon digging through the bras, she realizes this will be a recurring problem.

If a bra is open enough to allow her wings freedom, then it’s too uncomfortable to sleep in. If it’s breathable enough to sleep in, it's impossible to wear with her wings.

“How is this _ not _ a punishment?” Angela moans. In the end, she just grabs a sports bra, grits her teeth and struggles. As she fights with her wings, she realizes she has no earthly idea of how to control them. By the time she wrestles one wing through the racer back tank, Angela is on the white carpet floor, sobbing. 

After laying there for a moment, she takes a deep breath, reaches over her shoulder and yanks her other wing through the opening. Both the relief and pain are immediate, but the latter quickly subsides.

“_I hate you,” _Angela mutters, glaring over her shoulder at her weakly flapping wings. She takes stock of herself. Her softest bits are covered by soft fabric, but she still shivers. She looks up at the hanging clothes until she spots a purple pajama set that looks like fleece.

She tugs the pants down and forces her tail through the same treatment. When she gets to her feet, it just barely pokes out at the ankle of her left pants leg. Angela takes one look at the small collar on the matching shirt, pats the horns on top of her head, and gives up immediately.

If not for the flannel shirt she spots on the way out of the closet, she might have slept without any shirt at all. Angela shrugs into the oversized flannel and buttons it halfway up on the way to the bed. Ignoring the manual, she throws back the covers, crawls under the heavy duvet, and curls into a ball.

_ Surely I can’t sleep all fifty-two hours, can I? _

Angela reaches out and feels around the book until she grabs the bookmark.

_ 51:42:29 _

“I’m taking a nap,” Angela mumbles to the silent countdown. “I don’t suppose you can wake me up in a few hours? Or pause?”

As expected, the bookmark doesn’t answer.

Angela rolls to her side again, pulls the covers over her horns, and closes her eyes. Moira's laughter is a distant stress. Instead every terrifying, disgusting, and confusing moment since falling out of the Heap's ceiling plays like a bad movie behind her eyelids. For the first time, she doesn’t bother to wipe away her tears; they truly are as cold as the rest of her.

_ This is _ absolutely _ punishment. _

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes about this fic: I was raised Christian and though I don't subscribe to it, I acknowledge that my worldview is still heavily influenced by it. So, this does mean I feel a lot more comfortable bastardizing the religion I was raised in. So as much as I attempt a secularized/mythological (Egyptian/Greek) telling of the afterlife, I won't pretend it's not based on that!


End file.
